


Three Years of Gregstophe

by Temporarily



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Christophe is a huge romantic, Crack, Drama, Fluff, Getting Together, Gregory's Midlife Crisis, Humor, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Pining, Politics, Sharing a Bed, The Foreign Kids, my hand slipped, this was supposed to be a oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temporarily/pseuds/Temporarily
Summary: 1. Un copain means a friend. Mon copain means my boyfriend. While vacationing in Paris, Gregory introduces Christophe as his copain.2. The risk of being a radical revolutionary is that most aspects of the job are strictly illegal. The risk is even greater when you’re a well-known politician and his bodyguard.Gregory and Christophe get caught.3. Gregory fails to cope with the utter nonsense being an elected official can entail. Christophe comes home in time for Christmas.
Relationships: Christophe "The Mole"/Gregory of Yardale, Estella Havisham & Gregory of Yardale & Philip "Pip" Pirrip, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Philip "Pip" Pirrip/Damien Thorn, Rebecca Cotswolds/Estella Havisham, They're all friends its great
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. The Vacation

**Author's Note:**

> In 2017, I had the amazing opportunity to spend my summer studying French in Tours and touring Paris.  
> It made me want to write some Gregstophe.

It was always nice to go back to France. Gregory was grateful for his two distinct advantages while traveling there: Enough money not to worry about travel expenses and a Frenchman for a best friend. 

Rarely was such a trip ever a true vacation. Gregory of Yardale was a person of significant importance across the channel. His bright idealism and advocacy for various causes had—through what seemed like a fluke series of dramatic events that belonged more in South Park than London—landed him in an elected office. Once he became embroiled in the world of politics, he had to be a bit more careful about the whole revolutionary business. No more sneaking into authoritarian nations to spread sparks that lead to wildfires, no more sabotaging crime syndicates. No more pretending to be James Bond or Bruce Wayne or Robespierre, or any other sort of rich well-educated vigilante. It was time to grow up.

“Do you ever feel guilty about the chaos you leave behind?” Christophe had once asked him on a helicopter as they fled the bout of military-civilian conflict they may or may not have been indirectly responsible for.

Gregory had grinned at him, disregarded the radio link and lifted one side of his sound-protective headphones to shout in his ear, “Never!” 

When working as a politician in the public eye such trips became impossible, and Gregory began to leave these missions to his most trusted bodyguard, The Mole. There were occasional moments when fear might grip him as he read the headlines. An outbreak of a deadly virus in West Africa, indiscriminate drone strikes with high civilian casualties in Afghanistan, packs of wild dogs in India (Christophe hated dogs), drug lords in conflict in South America and complete radio silence in Russia or China. Then the moment would pass, and Gregory would chastise himself for ever doubting that The Mole would return safely. He always did. 

This trip, unlike many, was going to be a true vacation, aside from a few meetings with people of importance. Entirely within the parameters of legality. It was an uncommon treat in their line of work. To the media, they were a statesman and his bodyguard on a business trip. To any bystanders, they were two friends strolling down the Champs-Elysees enjoying some ice cream. 

They both loved France, Christophe in patriotic spirit, Gregory as a foreigner admires the accomplishment and culture of another nation. The French Revolution was one of his favorites. He was a bit disappointed that his own country had never gotten a grand turnabout Revolution; the transition from the feudal system to the House of Parliament as they knew it today took several hundred years and a dozen bloody skirmishes. But revolt and reform for the betterment of society could be found in many forms, which didn’t always involve chopping off heads. 

“America has been rife with protests this administration,” he commented while scrolling through BBC’s website on his phone.

“Mmmhm.” A disinterested Christophe threw some pigeon feed to appreciative birds gathered at the foot of the fountain they were sitting on, checked to see that Gregory wasn’t looking, and nibbled some himself, all while scanning the area for potential threats. 

“But then again, they’re always protesting one thing or another in America, it’s superb. And it looks like their relations with Canada might be improving.” 

“Ouis,” the Mole parroted.

“That new satyrical play with the anti-government subtext is banned in Russia, which is par for the course, but do you think we should pull a few strings? The arts are a great way to get people to think independently, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to hire some actors, find a small, discreet theatre, and spread the word around—”

“Gregory.” 

“Hmm?” The Mole snatched the blond’s phone out of his hand and stowed it away in his pocket before Gregory could protest. 

“Stop plotting and meddling with foreign affairs. Especially Russia, we’re one incident away from my job becoming a lot more difficult. This trip is supposed to be a vacation, not a setup for your next adventure. Relax, bête, or you will kill yourself from work long before anyone else gets a chance to.” The Englishman took a deep breath to try and slow down his whirling thoughts.

“Of course. You’re right ‘Tophe. Let’s go have a vacation!” He stood, dragging Christophe who was grumbling about how vacations aren’t invasions, they’re not supposed to be planned out to the very last detail, behind him. 

Christophe had been teaching him how to speak French for more than a decade, so Gregory was confident in his abilities when they checked into their hotel. 

« Une chambre pour moi et mon copain, s’il vous plaît. » The clerk smiled at them pleasantly, asked for their names, and handed them their key cards. When they entered their room everything was perfectly lovely, except for one flaw. 

“There’s only one bed,” Gregory remarked, staring at the offending furniture. 

His companion tossed a duffle bag into the closet and spared the bed a glance. “It would seem so.” Then he disappeared to excavate the bathroom. Christophe liked to throw away all the free soap, which Gregory would inevitably dig out of the trash can and make him use later. The blond sometimes locked the door from the outside and refused to let the Mole out until he’d used at least a full bar. 

“I did ask for one room with two beds, right Christophe?” he called. There was no reply except for some rustling as little cardboard containers were eviscerated and their contents stowed away. “Should I complain to management? Perhaps I should complain to management.” Christophe re-emerged and wandered over to the bed, then collapsed on it with a groan of fatigue. 

“It is a bed. You can deal with it for a few nights, so do not go complaining about all the little things that don’t meet your standards, you spoilt bitch.” 

“Get those filthy boots off the covers!!!” the spoilt bitch shrieked. 

Lunch was a similar story. 

« Une table pour moi et mon copain, s’il vous plait. » The waiter beamed at them, and hustled them over to their table with polite chit-chat about where they were from, (Londres.) where had Gregory learned to speak French, (Mon copain m’a aprris.) oh how sweet, how long had they known each other? (Depuis l’enfance.) He was unaware of Christophe stifling his laughter. 

The table was seated for two with an excellent view of the street below and a candlelight centerpiece. Looking around the restaurant Gregory observed that they were probably the only people in this area who weren’t a couple. All the families with screaming children were seated in large booths on the other side of the room. He turned to Christophe, who had his chin in his hand and was looking oddly soft, like all the cynicism had been sucked out of him. It was mildly concerning. 

“Tophe?”

« Quoi ?»

“You were looking at me strangely.”

“Ah, désolé. I expect we will be getting good service here.”

“Will we? The yelpers were vicious in the reviews.”

“Yelpers pretending to be sous chefs can go fuck themselves, we’re going to get good service because that waiter liked you. You were being infuriatingly charming again.” 

“Ah.” Gregory looked pleased with himself. There were always advantages to being, as Christophe put it, infuriatingly charming. 

The day continued with sight-seeing, remarkably good weather, and confusing subway transfers. The next morning Gregory blinked himself awake in their shared hotel bed, rolled over, grabbed his phone, yawned, opened Twitter, and sat up cursing a few seconds later. Christophe grumbled something and draped an arm over the blond’s shoulder, peering at the screen.

« Qu’est-ce que c’est? » Gregory read one of the headlines:

“Young Parliamentary Official Explores Paris with Boyfriend! There are pictures—how did the paparazzi sneak into the restaurant?! What do they even want with me, why aren’t they chasing some pop star or the royal family?!”

“In the world of politics, you are fairly sensational.” Gregory whacked him over the head, which did nothing to discourage The Mole’s grin. 

“Don’t you start, you’re the one who was supposed to be shooing the media vultures away! Now everyone thinks we’re a couple—stop laughing at my expense, this isn’t funny!!!” 

“I do not know why you are so upset. You are the one who said it first.” He stared at the brunette with dawning horror.

“…What?”

“You were introducing me as ‘mon copain’ all week.”

“Yes, ‘copain’ means friend, right?!” The Mole shook his head. 

“It's an easy mistake for English-speaking people. You say, “my friend,” all the time, and no one thinks anything of it. But in French, when you start getting possessive like that— _ mon  _ copain instead of  _ un  _ copain—it might be implied that your relationship with that  _ friend  _ is not entirely platonic.” 

“Fuck!” Gregory swung himself out of bed and began pacing around the room, running one hand through his curls and tapping madly at his smartphone with the other. Christophe lounged across the covers and watched him, amused. “This is horrible, I need to organize a press conference and I have a meeting with the Secretary of Commerce at one—why didn’t you correct me?!” he asked, rounding on the Mole, who shrugged.

“It was hilarious.”

“God damn it Christophe—what am I supposed to tell the press, that you let me go around making a fool of myself all day?!”

“Mais oui. Honesty is the best policy, non?”

“NOT IN POLITICS!!” The politician sat on the edge of the bed and clutched at his hair in despair. Christophe was still laughing, but he crawled forward to hug the other man from behind.

“You are worrying too much again. You will tell them there was an error in translation, that I am your bodyguard and have been for a long time, but you mistakenly introduced us as boyfriends. If they ask me to comment, I will tell them you are an idiot. Then everyone will laugh, and this will all be over. D’accord?” Gregory took a calming breath and stared at his phone with renewed vigor. 

“You’re right ‘Tophe. And even if people aren’t convinced, I can put a positive spin on this. Most of my supporters are progressive anyways, what do they care if I’m gay?” Christophe leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Voilà, problem solved.” He watched to see if Gregory would react or consider his actions remotely out of the ordinary. There was no reaction except a few mutterings about how he would have to rearrange his schedule. Once again, he lost Gregory’s attention to the phone. Christophe sighed and went to go grab a shirt.

One day, that idiot would realize he wasn’t this affectionate with everyone. He was, in fact, the antithesis of an affectionate person except when it came to that idiot. Christophe could only hope that by some miracle, one day two neurons would fire within his thick skull and he might put things together. 

Hopefully that day would come before The Mole went on a mission he couldn’t return from. 

He had followed Gregory ever since they were children. He would follow him anywhere, to England or Antarctica, to South Park Colorado or all the way to Jupiter. When he was younger he had no idea why he couldn’t help but orbit the spitfire sun that was Gregory of Yardale. Now, he was starting to figure things out. Christophe was certain that Gregory was going to make history, and maybe he would be a footnote. He would be the Patroclus to his Achilles, the Watson to his Sherlock, he would be a war dog, a rodent, he would be anything for him. If a day should come that some conspiracy theorist put together all the chaos they’d caused and Gregory was put on trial for his meddling, Christophe would be the one to take the fall, plead guilty, claim he was acting independently, do and say anything to incriminate himself.

Gregory had already gotten him killed once, and would surely get him killed again, but Christophe was fine with that. He was that kind of mad, loyal, and besotted. Gregory could take him for granted because it was worth it to be near him, and to be useful. 

On the flight home: 

“Tophe, are you mad at me?”

“Non.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not sulking.”

“Are you sure you’re not mad at me about something?”

“Salop, if I was mad at you, I would have already punched you in the face.”

“You can’t punch me, you’re my bodyguard!”

“You think that will stop me?”

“…Fine, alright. Go ahead and sulk, if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” Christophe remained silent, staring out the window at the cloud banks below, waiting for the moment when Gregory would fall asleep and rest his head on the shoulder next to him. 

Moment by moment, The Mole would wait. 


	2. The Bad Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2018, I listened to Hit and Run by LOLO. A line resonated with me: “History will hate us but they’ll never forget our names.” 
> 
> It made me want to write some Gregstophe. 

The constant movement of the bulletproof van swayed Christophe de Lorne from side to side, the sharp metallic bite of handcuffs dug into his wrists, and he fought to resist cussing out the guard glaring at him like he was a moldering piece of roadkill in at least three different languages. Instead, he leaned toward the man beside him and muttered in a voice low enough for their guards to pretend not to hear, but clear enough they wouldn’t think they were conspiring,

“It would seem that your political career is over.”

“Yes, I think it’s safe to say that I don’t have a chance in hell of winning any kind of election after that debacle. But it’s all right, I’m hardly the first politician to get caught in a lie and I surely won’t be the last.” The man—Gregory of course—agreed. The Mole grit his teeth, because Gregory sounded too damn cheerful. Didn’t this prick understand the sheer  _ magnitude  _ of how horrendously he’d fucked up!? And now he was dragging Christophe down with him—albeit willingly, but that was hardly the point.

“The world will hate you,” he remarked. It didn’t matter if Gregory was trying to “serve the greater good through mildly dubious means” no one else would see these circumstances as nothing less than a self-righteous madman doing whatever he wanted because he could. And in a way they were right. 

“Maybe, but ‘Tophe, we’ve just  _ made history!”  _ His tone was fervent, his grin wide, he was riding the power high of someone who had just pulled the rug out from under the entire fucking universe. Sure, Christophe thought bitterly, they’ve made history, and this fool didn’t seem to care about whether they’ve changed things for better or worse so long as people were rioting in the streets. 

This was the point where the guards decided enough was enough and told them to shut up unless they wanted a bullet in the mouth. Christophe would normally see this as an idle threat, call bullshit, and tell them to go fuck their mothers but considering what the reporters were jabbering they might just be pissed off enough to do it. And everyone else might be pissed off enough not to care. So, Christophe wisely shut up and was thankful that Gregory didn’t start harping on about his right to free speech.

He thought that maybe, if this were a Hollywood thriller, this moment of uncertainty would be the scene of a grand love confession. And if this movie had Disney proportions of unrealistic bullshit, through the power of love—or plain old badassery—they would break their bindings, fight their way out of this car, and escape into the night. And then maybe find a time machine so they could go back and fix this mess.

But this was not a movie, and Christophe was perfectly aware that an armored car with several witnesses was a  _ terrible  _ time and place to try and explain his feelings. He also doubted that shouting, “Parce-que je l’aime!” at his trial was going to win him any Get Out of Jail Free cards. 

“Bâtard fou,” he muttered instead, and he got a fond smile in return. An impulsive part of him wished he could hug this crazy bastard and not let go, or at least cling to his hand. Because when they arrived wherever they were going they would be separated and who knew when or if they’d see each other again? Christophe frantically tried to remember if this state enforced the death penalty and if what they’ve done was bad enough to warrant it. He was normally pragmatic and brutally realistic, always ready to plan for the worst-case scenario. But this worst-case scenario was not something he could consider. Instead, he focused on Gregory.

He memorized every single inch of space where they were pressed together, from shoulder to elbow, hip to knee. He counted Gregory’s breathing and matched it, then strained to sense his heartbeat through the layers of clothing and match that too. He imagined the space between his old, beat up, dusty jacket and Gregory’s rumpled, slightly singed suit accessorized with a ridiculous orange tie was completely gone, to the atomic level, and that microscopic covalent bonds were holding them together.

Then the van rolled to a stop, the doors were opening, and the asshole guard who wouldn’t stop glaring was unlocking Gregory’s ankle cuffs and manhandling him outside. The blond shot him one last cocky grin before stepping down.

He was so sure of himself, even now.

The Mole was hit with his sense of conviction that it was his job to protect this man, even if those imaginary microscopic bonds stretched impossible distances. Until Christophe could be near him so he could do his job again, everything between them was inconsequential. Time and space and legal procedures and iron bars. Christophe would wait decades; he’d dig through his cell floor with his bare hands if he had to. Anything. Anything for him. 

When it was his turn to step down, he was assaulted by the flash of cameras. The world was watching, and Christophe was sure he and Gregory were both mad, that their madness had infected everyone else. 

They shouted, sobbed, and shook the fence. And Christophe de Lorne smiled sharp. 


	3. The End of the Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2019, I shared the previous two oneshots in a discord server full of wonderful, supportive people.  
> It made me want to write some more.

When Gregory finally finishes staggering home, it’s just past one in the morning.

He hangs his coat and blazer in the foyer. Walks on instinct into the kitchen. Loosens his tie and collar. Sits on the stool in front of the counter, presses his head to the cold marble and breathes in. Out. 

His whole day has been absolute hell. 

_ Fuck Brexit, _ Gregory thinks vindictively.  _ Fuck the great bloody issue and fuck this clown of a Prime Minister and just. Fuck. Everything.  _

While Gregory wouldn’t say he’d been naive when he first ran to become a Member of Parliament, he had perhaps possessed… certain expectations of grandeur. This shit? The umpteenth missed deadline, the new looming general election—Christ,  _ another  _ election, he isn’t prepared to deal with this. He’d won and held his seat during the past two thanks to his passionate voter base tucked away in a progressive little corner of London. This isn’t as impressive as it sounds when they’re about to have their  _ third  _ election in  _ less than five years _ . Prime Ministers are going in and out of office faster than a toddler through a revolving door. And the  _ current one _ , that  _ detestable ignominious  _ with his atrocious hair and wretched dress sense and fumbling vernacular. Despite being so wholly deplorable, despite all expectations…

He is winning. 

He’s somehow  _ winning.  _

_ How!? _

Gregory groans and thumps his head against the counter a few times before he gets up to raid the liquor cabinet. 

Once, he’d dreamed of setting the world on fire. Now it seems all he does these days is put them out _.  _ He ought to pay a visit to the chaps down at the local station and hand them his resume. At least fighting literal fires would be more rewarding than this thankless job. 

Because it is one in the morning and the whole day has been hell and everything is still burning, Gregory tosses his brandy back and allows himself a moment of defeatism. 

He has just over two months to throw a fresh campaign together or he could lose his seat. Not that it will matter, since the Conservative party is going to win the majority. How can Labour put up a good fight when it’s so divided? It can’t, especially not with their current leading candidate, who’s just about as bad as the opposition. The Prime Minister may be a clown but at least he doesn’t openly permit anti-sematic jokes. And that’s just the top of a laundry list of questionable bullshit.

And when all this comes to pass the UK is going to become a laughingstock on the global stage second only to America. 

Really, truly. Fuck.  _ Everything _ . 

Gregory pours himself more brandy and looks around the dark kitchen. The clock ticks and the refrigerator hums and Gregory sighs. The worst part of it all? There isn’t anyone to complain to. Nobody to tell him to stop being such a little bitch and make a plan that will fix everything.

The politician unlocks his phone, scrolls through his contacts and hovers around C. 

_ I shouldn’t,  _ he thinks. 

He opens the message log anyway. 

He stares at the bottom of two years of unanswered messages. Paragraph-long descriptions of his unbelievable day and grandiose proposals and scathing jokes at his colleagues’ expense that gradually diminished into one-sentence remarks weeks or months apart. The last three read:  _ I miss you. _

Gregory finishes off his drink and blames the stinging in his eyes on the burn of it going down. He types and then sends,  _ My dear Christophe: _ _ I miss you so fucking much.  _

He falls asleep at the kitchen counter. 

Dr. Miller looks pained as she says, “Gregory, you know this isn’t healthy.” The politician scowls and snatches his phone from the table between them. 

Over the years Gregory has come to realize that any good therapist can ferret out exactly what’s troubling you. Dr. Miller is a sharp-eyed crop-haired woman who can ferret in spades. But even though Gregory has learned to value this trait it doesn’t annoy him any less. 

“I don’t see what the harm is in sending a few messages. It’s like a pocket-journal. You’re always telling me to start a journal. And I will, properly. When I have the time.” 

“This is the exact opposite of closure.”

“I don’t  _ need _ closure.” His therapist raises her eyebrows. “I don’t. Christophe will be back one day. He’s just taking his sweet time about it.” 

“Gregory, your friend disappeared more than two years ago.”  _ He didn’t disappear _ , the patient thinks,  _ I sent him away.  _ “And we’ve gone over how you can’t blame yourself for something outside your control—”  _ But I am to blame, power and control were all I thought about— _ “We’ve also gone over how you need to accept the possibility that he might not be coming back.” Gregory inhales for three, five, seven seconds. He exhales on ten. 

“When we were young, Christophe and I would play at being revolutionaries. Only, it was far more than a game to me. I never learned how to let it go. And lately I’ve wondered… If I’d only grown up faster, would he still be with me?” Dr. Miller blinks.

“You think his disappearance was an act of… rebellion?” she asks. 

_ No _ ,  _ it was an act of devotion. I was just too blind to see it.  _

Gregory doesn’t know why the party has granted him such generous funding to run his campaign. Perhaps leadership sees promise in him. Or perhaps, more likely, they  _ desperately  _ need to keep his district this election. Which means Gregory’s career depends on whether or not he can deliver. 

But what he has in funding he lacks in time. With the Chamber and various committees taking up four working days out of five and a campaign to oversee, there’s no such thing as weekends anymore. 

“How’s work?” Dr. Miller asks him. “Not too stressful I hope?” Gregory laughs. 

“Work is fine. I just need to hold out two more months.” The therapist hums and gives him the raised eyebrow look he knows comes right before she’s about to ferret out all his problems.

After that visit, he starts allowing himself Sundays off. 

Gregory passes most campaign management responsibility to the most capable of his many capable and blessed staff members, Aminata Andrews. With only five weeks’ notice, she’s doing a fantastic job. 

Andrews reminds him in some ways of Wendy Testaburger. They’re both highly competent, driven, intelligent, and fond of purple—in the case of Andrews she expresses this through the shades of her lipstick. 

But of course, if Wendy were here she would be an MP herself at this point. Hell, she would probably be the leader of her own party. When he’d last checked in with her she was about to earn her Masters in PolySci. He’s probably overdue a phone call. 

There is one other member of his staff that routinely clobbers Gregory right in the childhood nostalgia: Pip Pirrup. He’d walked into the office unexpected and unannounced, offering his service as a volunteer. Gregory hadn’t even known he was in London at the time. 

Pip has little to no interest in politics or current events or the state of the nation, however, he doesn’t mind helping out an old chum. He’s little more than a glorified intern and gets paid even less. But he knows how to handle aggressive callers without so much as a wince, how to make an excellent pot of whatever anyone wants, tea or coffee or lemonade, and he keeps them all supplied with chocolate biscuits and shortbread. He is relentlessly cheerful and encouraging which is something Gregory’s office desperately needs.

Especially now, as they huddle around their phones and laptops, transfixed by footage from the terrorist attack on London Bridge minutes before.

Andrews curses under her breath and grips the chair in front of her. Pip, for once, is neither chattering away nor smiling. Gregory excuses himself to his private office. 

This isn’t the first terrorist attack that’s happened since Gregory became an MP. It isn’t even the fifth. But it has been a while since the last one. And it’s a jarring reminder that anyone walking down the street, in broad daylight, in one of the busiest parts of the city could have their life taken. 

Of course, this is what terrorist organizations want: Uncertainty and fear. Gregory tries to focus instead on the brave civilians who helped subdue the attacker, on the first responders whose actions prevented the tally of dead and wounded from reaching double digits…

But he wonders, briefly, if it’s once again time to get a bodyguard.

That thought is enough to snap him out of his funk. How absurd. He doesn’t need a  _ bodyguard _ . What would anyone possibly want to kill him for? Aside from a few small incidents from a few years ago but  _ still _ . And how selfish, to think first of himself when he is supposed to be representing his voters’ interests, not cowering behind hired muscle.

He takes out his phone and sends:  _ Dear Christophe, I think I’m getting more and more paranoid. Isn’t that your job? _

Then he straightens up, tries to put on a smile, grimaces, swaps it out for a more sincere somber expression and walks back onto the office floor.

Election night. Pip puts them all in the mood by bringing in a life-sized cardboard cutout of their conservative party opponent, Mr. Matthew Thompson, shamelessly vandalizing it with a sharpie, proclaiming, “Let's fuck this droopy-lipped wanker up!” and attempting to set it on fire. 

Gregory gives him points for enthusiasm but explains that the last thing any of them need is the fire alarms going off. So Pip happily takes the cutout to the rooftop garden and starts melting it with a hose. 

Gregory makes a note: Pip’s friendly appearance is a deception. He is secretly vicious. Try not to get on his bad side. 

It’s nice to finally sit back and say, enough. They’ve done all they can. Now it’s time to wait for the votes to come in. But as the evening wears on that feeling turns into mounting anxiety. Every screen has a different station covering a different district. BBC monopolizes the forty-five-inch television with national coverage. 

But despite everything the news anchors say about the election and the candidates and who will win where and which districts are bound to swing or stick, the only bits that matter are the ones where they announce an unbeatable lead or the closing of poles. 

Gregory and Andrews share a grim look across the room. Things aren’t looking good for them. It’s an hour until closing time and their opponent is still ahead. The margin is slight, but slight losses a Member of Parliament does not make. 

She crosses the room to offer him a cigarette. He stares at her like she’s just offered him a snake. She shrugs and goes up to the roof to join Pip. Gregory palms the phone in his suit pocket. Just as he does, it rings. 

He briefly wonders who would be calling his personal number at a time like this. Scammers most likely. Most of the numbers on this device belong to friends back in America, and they have their own day-to-day political scandal in Washington to sort out, so it’s unlikely anyone’s paying attention to the UK’s election.

When he does look at the name on the screen, he freezes. For three, five, seven seconds. He fumbles with his thumbs and almost doesn’t pick up in time. 

“Hello?” he says, breathless and incredulous. 

“Salut l’ami. Would you mind coming downstairs and telling this security guard to fuck off? He refuses to let me into your office.” Gregory is speechless. Three, five, seven. Ten seconds pass. “…Gregory?”

“I’ll be right down,” he croaks.

*******

When Gregory lets Christophe in, he is mindful of the security guard. It’s the only thing preventing him from latching on to his newly returned friend like a leech. Which is exactly what he does the second the elevator doors close, right after he pushes every button between the lobby and his office.

“Oof. Hello there,” Christophe says with a grin, hugging him back. Gregory makes an unintelligible wounded noise in the crook of his neck. “I take it you missed me?” They reach floor two, the doors open and shut.

“ _ You monkey’s-fart-brain of a man, of course I missed you!”  _ Christophe laughs.

“You have been spending too much time with Estella.” 

“Well who else was going to insult me while you were gone?!” The Frenchman courteously ignores the fact that Gregory is borderline wailing as they pass floor three.

“Je regrette d'avoir pris si longtemps. There was a complication with the mission. I lost contact after a month. I finally got my phone fixed today. Imagine my surprise when I found hundreds of messages waiting for me. I haven’t read them all yet, but I will, I promise.” Gregory makes a choking noise and clings tighter. The doors ding open, floor five.

“You are never going on another stupid mission again,” he vows. He steps back to observe his friend. Christophe has new scars and worn clothes and a ragged duffle bag slung over his shoulder, but his wry smile and the bags slung under his eyes are the same. As is the way he furrows his brow in confusion. 

“But—”

“No.”

“Hang on—”

“It’s non-negotiable.” Floor nine.

“What if I told you I received an offer from the secret service to become an MI6 agent as soon as I set foot in London?” Open and shut, floor ten.

“Then I would tell the secret service to bugger off because they can’t have you. Besides, you can’t be MI6, you’re French.” Christophe grins.

“Tu m'as bien eu.” The elevator doors open for the final time. Gregory drags Christophe across the room with a cursory glance at the poles—better, but still not where they need to be—and into his private office. “Why is everything so busy?” Christophe asks when the doors close.

“It’s election night.”

“Euh, quoi? The fuck?! That isn’t supposed to come for a few more months!” 

“It was supposed to be two years actually, we had another one right after you… departed.”

“Huh. Three elections in less than five years? I have missed a lot.” 

“Oh believe me you don’t know the half of it. Wait until you see our Prime Minister.” Christophe crosses the room and dumps his filthy, mud-stained duffle on Gregory’s nicely polished desk. Gregory internally winces. Then the Mole sits in the swivel chair, kicks off his boots, and rests his smelly socks on the duffle. “I can’t believe I missed how disgusting you are,” Gregory laments. 

“So, what happens when you win?” Christophe asks. The politician sighs. 

“I’m not sure I’ll be winning this time ‘Tophe.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you will win. Who are you running against?” 

“Primarily Matthew Thompson.” 

“Thompson, bah! That balding limpdick doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Do you actually __ have the slightest idea who Matthew Thompson is?”

“No, but I was right, wasn’t I? He is a balding limpdick.” Gregory smiles. “See? You’ve got more hair, you’ll be fine.”

“It’s not always about the hair, although that does help. But the poles haven’t been looking good all night. I’m young and inexperienced. I was given a chance to prove myself but this district doesn’t want brilliance, Christophe. It doesn’t want idealistic vision and excitement and everything I’ve marketed myself as. They want answers—and rightfully so. They want stability. They want to Get Brexit Done.” Christophe shakes his head. 

“You’ve been listening too much to your enemies and not enough to your allies. You’ve done well this whole time and you will continue to do well, and everyone knows it. If they don’t, they’re idiots.” They’re interrupted by a rousing cheer from the staff and volunteers outside. A moment later Pip pokes his head through the door. 

“If you two are finished bickering like an old married couple, I thought I’d let Gregory know he’s snatched a lead in the polls. Nice to see you again Mole!” Then he shuts the door, which Christophe stares at.

“The fuck is he doing here?” 

“Never mind that Christophe,” Gregory says with a sigh, perching on the opposite side of the desk with crossed arms, a good foot away from the smelly duffle bag. 

“I thought that little twerp was back in America, now he’s working for you?”

“He’s volunteering. He’s been surprisingly helpful; I might hire him full-time after this if he’s willing to take the position.” Christophe looks borderline horrified.

“You lost your reason. I never should have left.”

“That, we can agree on.” There’s the eyebrow furrow of confusion again. 

“Mais—”

“Shut up Christophe.”

“I thought you needed me to complete the mission.”

“Well I was wrong, alright?!” Gregory glares at the fabric of his pants. He refuses to look up when he hears the swivel chair circling the desk and come to a halt in front of him. It’s only when he feels a finger tipping his chin up that he unbends his neck. 

Christophe is scrutinizing him with thoughtful eyes. But after a few moments whatever he sees makes him break into a warm smile.

“You have changed.” Gregory huffs.

“The only thing that’s changed is I’ve become a hot mess.”

“No, you were always a hot mess. But now you are a hot mess about to win an election,” he says with conviction. Gregory looks off to the side. 

“The night isn’t over yet.”

“Non. I am right and you are not going to argue with me. You will beat limpdick Thompson and when you do you will give one of your ridiculous inspiring speeches. You have written a victory speech, yes?” 

“…I have one.”

“Did  _ you  _ write it?”

“There wasn’t time. My staff wrote it for me.”

“There’s time now.” Christophe picks up Gregory’s laptop and passes it to him. The politician sighs. It’s not like he’s going to go home before the votes are in anyway. He might as well be productive.

“Alright. I’ll write a speech,” he says, reclaiming his chair and restoring its place behind the desk. “If you want to go wash up, bathroom’s down the hall and to the left.” And of course, they both know that when Gregory says,  _ If you want to go wash up  _ what he really means is  _ If you don’t wash up soon I’ll throw you off the balcony.  _ So Christophe gives him a sharp salute and moves to depart. But when he opens the door Gregory is seized by irrational fear. He recalls how Christophe walked out of his office just like this two years ago. “Wait—” 

“What?” Gregory clamps his mouth shut. After a few moments of being unable to find the words he says, 

“It’s nothing.” The Mole’s mouth stretches into a slow grin.

“What, you missed me so much you don’t want me to leave?”

“Shut up ‘Tophe.”

“Not even to get rid of my gross stink? I haven’t showered in more than a month you know.”

“Oh my God get the fuck out of my office right this instant if I’d known that I wouldn’t have hugged you!”

“Admit it, you even missed my gross stink.”

“Leave and Then Perish.” 

“You did though.”

“Begone thot.”

“Is this a pop quiz in memes for the past two years? Because I was a little too busy to study.” Gregory slams his hands on the desk and then points at the door, shouting,

“YEETUS IMMEDIATUS!” The Mole scampers. 

When he returns, not significantly less stinky but a whole lot cleaner, he passes the time on his new phone while Gregory writes his speech. Christophe has a habit of sprawling anywhere and everywhere in Gregory’s office. Flat on the floor, perched on the desk, curled up with his back resting on Gregory’s chair. Even though they aren’t talking—aside from the occasional exclamation of, “When the fuck did this happen?” and “Fils de pute, I liked that actor!” as Christophe gets caught up with the rest of the world—Gregory’s office feels more whole with his presence. Normally this would motivate the politician to work harder, but Gregory keeps getting distracted. He’ll idly reach out to fix his friend’s hair or touch his shoulder just to confirm that he is tangible, present. 

Christophe figures out what he’s doing by the third hair-fix. He allows it, even moving closer, and Gregory is grateful. 

Just as he’s tacking on the final paragraph of his first rough draft Andrews opens the door, her purple lipstick smile abeam.

“Good news!” she announces. Behind her, the whole office cheers.

Plenty of drinks and shortbread later, Gregory and Christophe step outside to find a light dusting of snow drifting down to coat the street. They stop to watch it dance in the lamplight. 

“Did you know, this has been the first winter election since nineteen-twenty-three?” Gregory asks. 

“Non,” Christophe replies. Gregory glances over and sees that his ears and nose are already red from the chill. He offers him his scarf. Christophe tries to refuse—

“This has nothing on Moscow.”

“I don’t give a shit about Moscow, take the damn scarf.” He takes the scarf. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Eh, whatever shitty motel I can find, probably. I doubt my landlord will let me get away with missing two years of rent.”

“Stay with me.” Gregory turns even redder than cold-bitten-Christophe after he realizes what he’s just said. “I meant—you can stay. The night. At my place. And then some. For however long you want to. If you want to.” 

“Heh. You would get sick of me if I stayed more than a week.”

“Only a little.”

“You say that now but just wait until I start digging up your backyard.”

“I don’t have a backyard: Problem solved. London housing, am I right?” He gives a smile and Christophe returns it. 

“Fine. I will stay with you as long as it takes me to find someplace else.” 

“Christophe…” Gregory takes a deep breath and decides, what the hell. “I meant it. Move in with me. If you want to, then I want you to.” Christophe looks utterly baffled.

“…Pourquoi?”

“Do I have to say it? It’s all right there!” Gregory says as he gestures at the phone in Christophe’s hand, growing flustered. Christophe looks down at the notification reminding him about the hundreds of text messages and grins. 

“Perhaps, but I haven’t read this yet. So say it.” Gregory grits his teeth. Fuck this guy, really. 

“Because I—” No, really,  _ fuck this guy,  _ he’s not gonna say it!

“Go on,” Christophe insists. “Dis-le-moi.” Gregory caves.

“Because I missed you, you infuriating frog! I even missed your disgusting habits and gross stink. And for a while, I was starting to think that you were never coming back!” Christophe’s expression sinks into something deeply serious. He puts his hands on Gregory’s shoulders and turns the blond round to face him.

“Never.”

“Never what?”

“Never think that I won’t return. It took me far too long and one hell of a journey, but I made it Gregory. And I always will. Now, let’s go home. I will tell you all about my adventure. And if you don’t want me to leave, I won’t.” So, the stinging Gregory feels in his eyes and the runny nose he has as he leads Christophe to his car? That’s from the cold. Absolutely. No other cause whatsoever. 

Although it is a little strange how a spontaneous hug from his friend almost immediately cures those symptoms.

*******

The next morning Gregory blinks awake at the sound of his alarm, turns it off and rolls over. Five minutes later he remembers it’s not a weekend, groans and rolls back to check his phone. Then he remembers two more things: Christophe is staying in his guest room, and the results of the election must be in. He opens twitter and sits up as soon as he sees what’s trending. 

“No, no no no nononono…” He keeps scrolling, despair growing with every link to every article. Eventually he rolls out of bed, slips on his slippers and bathrobe, and plods down the hall to the guest room. 

Christophe is a log under the duvet with a mop of brown hair and not much else visible, but he pushes down the covers enough for his nose to poke out the instant he feels the weight of Gregory sitting on the bed. 

“Whatever you want, it’s too early for this shit,” he says. Gregory wordlessly hands him his phone. Christophe takes in the news and then pulls the covers back to invite Gregory inside. The politician presses his face into the ex-mercenary’s chest and mumbles, 

“It’s worse than even the most outlandish predictions.” 

“Conservatives Celebrate their Biggest Victory in Thirty Years,” Christophe reads. “Labour’s Red Wall Has Been Broken. Conservative Party Wins in a Landslide.”

“The Tories will have control of parliament for the next five years,” Gregory bemoans. 

“There may be some room for compromise,” Christophe says. “They are promising to spend more on schools and cut taxes for the working class.”

“The way they intend to execute those policies is unrealistic and their stance on immigration is plain racist,” Gregory retorts. Christophe puts the phone away and glares down at him.

“You must make the best out of a bad situation.”

“This is the WORST situation!!!” Gregory says, dramatically flinging the covers off. Christophe pulls them back and boots him to the edge of the bed. 

“If you do not push back then nothing will prevent them from getting their way. Instead, you must force them to concede to your points. Do your best even if it seems futile.” His advice comes muffled and grumpy from his newly formed blanket fort but it’s enough to make Gregory slump over, resigned. 

“…You’re right ‘Tophe. I’m just not looking forward to five years of intense debate that gets nobody anywhere.” Christophe pokes his head back out with a cunning gleam in his eye.

“…Do you know what I think?”

“What?” 

“I think Labour needs a revolution.” The blond blinks. He takes a moment to let the possibilities sink in. And then he starts to smile wide.

“Why my dear Christophe, I do believe you’re right.”

Dr. Miller stares at the person her patient has brought in over her spectacles. She jots down a note and stares some more. Then she sighs and says,

“Fine. You were right.” 

“HAH!” Gregory jumps out of his seat and whips out his phone. “Can I get a recording of that?”

“No.” 

“Gregory, why am I here?” Christophe asks from his side of the couch.

“To prove a point.” Gregory rounds on his therapist and beams smugly. “I told you he’d be back.”

“I’m happy for you,” Dr. Miller says. “Now we can move on from the past and start focusing on your future. For example, I’m seeing a lot of work-stress related discussions in your future.” Christophe cackles.

“Oh, I like her.”

“Shut up ‘Tophe.”

With all these crazy political shenanigans, Gregory realizes that Christmas has snuck up on him. Well, ambushed him more like, which is exactly what Christophe does when he drags them out to buy a tree. 

Gregory has yet to catch his annual Christmas fever this year. Too much has been going on. He’s burnt out and has very little energy to spend on the holidays. So, he points to the first tree he sees and says, “How about that one?” Christophe stares at the skimpy little tree with deep disgust and judgment. 

“We are not getting that tree. It looks worse than the Charlie Brown one. It’s not even charming.” Well now Gregory has to argue with him about it. 

They walk through the tree lot with Christophe making a case for every single tree except the Charlie Brown one and Gregory stubbornly rejecting them all. They attract a lot of stares. Some are miffed, others amused, and a few oddly soft. 

It’s not like Gregory even wants the damn tree, he just wants Christophe to suffer. And he wants to see the look on his face when he walks into the living room on Christmas morning to find a majestic seven-foot Douglas Fir after Gregory’s been bitching about having this one pathetic little tree for weeks.

“Why do you even care?” Gregory asks. “You’re normally a Grinch during Christmas.” The Mole stops inspecting the closest spruce with his nose and thinks for a moment.

“You are right. I fucking hate Christmas. It’s God’s birthday and you know where I stand when it comes to that dipshit.” 

“Technically it’s God’s son’s birthday.”

“Whatever, it’s more religious bullshit. But I will put my grinchiness aside to make sure you get a Merry Fucking Christmas if it’s the last thing I do.” Gregory’s chest feels oddly warm, and his fingers and toes are tingling. But that’s probably just the oncoming frostbite. 

He wraps his arms around Christophe’s shoulder from behind, leans in and says, “You know what would help me have a Merry Fucking Christmas… That charming little Charlie Brown tree.” 

“DAMN IT—" 

They get the tree. 

It comes as they’re hauling the tree towards the car, right after Christophe swears, “I am not doing this again next year!” It comes and it hits so hard Gregory almost drops his end: The realization that he wants to do this with Christophe again next year. And the year after that and the year after that year. Gregory realizes that he wants this for the rest of his life. 

Not just getting a Christmas tree, obviously. The good-natured bickering, the quiet moments in his office, the warm moments under the covers, the way his chest gets tight and his fingers and toes tingle and his cheeks hurt from smiling. He wants to keep this close bond that started when they were little kids with big dreams and only strengthened as they grew up and went after those dreams with fearless abandon.

Gregory realizes that he wants to be with Christophe for the rest of his life. Or however long the two of them have got. 

“Ey, bête, watch out!” Gregory slips on a patch of ice, drops the tree, and almost faceplants right into the branches but manages to catch himself just in time. “Tu imbécile—putain de merde! I told you to watch out for the ice!!!”

“Sorry,” Gregory says shakily, “I was distracted.” 

*******

This calls for an emergency meeting. Gregory is having a  _ crisis _ , a crisis he can’t tell Christophe about. This will not stand. Luckily, he knows just who to call. 

“Oh look, it seems my cat has dropped something revolting on my doorstep.” This greeting is practically amicable by her usual standards. It implies that the cat, Amelia-Alexandra III who has quite the royalty complex, deems Gregory worthy of picking up in the first place.

“I missed you too Estella. May I come in?” Estella Havisham smiles and leans in for a hug.

“Of course you may you silly baboon fart, it’s been far too long since you’ve shown your pathetic pointy face around here.” 

“I’ll give you three out of ten, not your most original material.”

“Shut your whore mouth you detestable speck of dental plaque.”

“That’s better.” Estella is one of Gregory’s oldest childhood friends. They met at Yardale’s annual winter dance when the all-girls school she attended was invited to socialize. It was all obscenely posh and elite. He’d asked her to dance and she’d called him a revolting little pustule of pig shit and then insulted his hair. They’ve been friends ever since. 

He crosses the threshold and she leads him up the stairs of her cozy townhouse. In spring the windows will be lined with wisteria and daffodils, but currently the end tables sport potted poinsettias and holly garlands dangle from doorways. No mistletoe though, Estella won’t stand for such foolishness in her house. 

Gregory deeply appreciates Estella’s house. He really should visit more often.

They pass stacks of boxes barely containing frothy white and red fabrics in the second-floor hallway. Gregory opens one out of curiosity. “A new shipment of dresses?” Estella sighs with exasperation. 

“Pardon the mess, it seems every stupid bitch in London wants to freeze their tits off with a winter wedding and my house has become a damn warehouse because of it.” 

“At least business is good. You’re making quite the name for yourself: The shrew who wants to monopolize the wedding industry.” She smirks and leans against the banister.

“You have quite the reputation as well, mister Member of Parliament.” Gregory sighs and shoos her up the stairs before she can begin verbally flaying him better than any of his political opponents can. 

They enter the tearoom, where Amelia-Alexandra III is having a nap on the window seat. Gregory offers her a friendly scratch behind the ears and she attempts to take his fingers off for his trouble. 

“Now tell me,” Estella says as she pulls up a chair beside the small round table in front of the windows. “Who is this friend you insisted on inviting? Don’t tell me you’ve dragged the grotty rodent along.” Gregory wants to laugh. Like hell will Christophe ever know what will be discussed at this meeting. 

“It’s a secret.” His phone buzzes in his pocket and he checks it. “One that’s about to be revealed. Shall I go let him in?” Estella waves her hand in permission as she ferries the tea tray up the dumbwaiter— _ honestly _ , who still has a functional dumbwaiter? This is why Gregory loves Estella’s house. 

When the hostess sees who’s tailing her guest into the room a few minutes later, she almost shatters a cup. 

“What. The ever-loving fuck. Is this small-testicled parasite doing here?”

“Hello there love!” Pip greets with a cheery wave. Estella looks nigh murderous, which was probably his intent.

“He’s here because I invited him Estella.”

“Get him out. Now.” 

“I can leave,” Pip says, not sounding like he cares much either way.

“No. You can handle one afternoon tea with your ex from when you were seven years old Estella. In case you had forgotten I’m having a bit of a crisis, and for all your lovely, wonderful qualities and sound advice you are terrible at offering encouragement. Pip however is a little sunbeam that constantly radiates, ‘I believe in you.’”

“Why thank you Gregory!” 

“Right before he gives you third-degree burns.”

“Thank you Gregory!” Estella sighs and relents. 

“Very well. I suppose I can tolerate the presence of a limey little louse in my house for one afternoon. Now, who wants tea?” They all sit down to admire the spread. There is tea, freshly baked scones, chilled pomegranate seeds and satsuma slices, tiny sandwiches aplenty, and even a Victoria sponge cake. Gregory is surprised she’s managed to pull this all together on such short notice.

“I may be a vindictive shrew, but my hospitality is second to none,” Estella says as she pours Pip a cup without even passive-aggressively spilling any drops on his hand. 

“Now Gregory, what is this crisis you’ve summoned us to discuss?” Pip asks.

“Oh yes,” Estella says, leaning forward and sipping her tea. This is the part she enjoys. An opportunity to torment silly men with their questionable decisions. “Tell us all about the  _ crisis. _ ” Gregory sighs and helps himself to a sandwich but doesn’t eat it. He simply stares as it makes itself at home on Estella’s decorative porcelain plate. 

“You may have heard that Christophe has recently returned.”

“You mean the big-eared rodent who stinks like shit? Yes, and I also heard that you were either benevolent or stupid enough to let him shack up at yours. What of it?” Ah hell, might as well come right out and say it.

“Well, I’ve realized I’m in love with him.” The silence only lasts for a moment. 

“Took you long enough,” Pip chirps. 

“Really you absolute fecal-brained idiot I cannot believe you’re having a crisis over  _ this _ .”

“I am having a crisis!” Gregory says with mounting distress. “I don’t know what to do about it!” 

“Well he’s already agreed to move in with you, hasn’t he?” Pip remarks. “All that’s left to do is put a ring on it, in due time.”

“I can’t do that!” 

“Why not?”

“Because we’re still just friends!” 

“…My dearest Gregory,” Estella says through gritted teeth. “Please do not tell me you asked Christophe to move in with you BEFORE you asked him on a date.” Gregory has no words or excuses so he decides that now would be an opportune time to eat that sandwich. “Oh Christ that’s exactly what you did isn’t it?”

“Pip stop LAUGHING AT ME you’re supposed to be here for encouragement!” 

“So sorry—” Pip gasps, “I’ll stop—just as soon as I—ahhhhhh this is too much!” 

“Listen to me right now you stupid son of a jackass,” Estella says while waving a spoon in a vaguely threatening manner. “Here’s how you’re going to fix this. Take notes if you must.” Pip reaches into his inner jacket pocket and passes Gregory a notepad and pencil. Gregory tells himself he has no need for such a ridiculous measure… But he does keep the pad open and the pencil ready. Just in case. “You are not going to allow yourself to give in to any irritating anxious thoughts about what happens if you ruin this friendship because let me tell you right now that isn’t going to happen, alright? So you have no excuse for procrastinating. You need to be very clear about your intentions. No subtle flirting and no elaborate plans because both have too many opportunities to go wrong. Apologize for taking your sweet time about realizing your feelings, tell him what those feelings are, and then ask him out. Sweep him off his feet. He’s got a heart of slop underneath that tough mercenary act so he’ll eat it right up I’m sure.” Gregory sighs into his tea morosely. 

“You make it sound so easy…” 

“Why on Earth should it be hard!?!” Estella exclaims. “A little less flourish and a lot more candor are exactly what you need Gregory. Say, ‘Christophe, I am a bile-inducing dunderfoot who’s been too busy to see what’s right in front of me my entire god damn life but I’m telling you now, I’m stupidly in love with you, will you please go out with me?’ Or however the hell you want to put it.” She sits back and has another sip. She adds, “And you should know I only managed to get those words out by imagining a lovely soft brunet with large breasts instead of that disgusting creature you invited into your house.”

“So, Rebecca,” Gregory says with amusement.

“Do be quiet you impossible man child I’m giving you invaluable advice.” She stands to offer them all another cup, which they gladly accept. 

“I agree with Estella,” Pip says. “All you can do at this point is pine tragically for the rest of your days or work up the nerve to tell him. We’ll be here to encourage you every step of the way, of course.”

“But not if you ask us to do anything ridiculous like roleplay Christophe so you can practice your confession because I will not stand for that absurdity.” 

“Write it out first, if it helps.”

“But burn it after because one day you’ll find it—or worse, Christophe will—and you’ll die of embarrassment and I’ll laugh at your funeral.” 

“This is why Pip is here,” Gregory says weakly. 

“Oh no, I’d laugh at your funeral too if that’s how you go.”

“I deeply regret inviting you.” Pip merely beams. Gregory pushes his plate aside with resolve. He looks like he’s about to stand and deliver an inspiring speech but a quick glare from Estella is all it takes for him to limit himself to, “You’re both right. There’s nothing else for it but to gather my courage and give it my best shot. Thank you both for reminding me that.” 

“Even though it was painfully obvious,” Pip quips. Gregory twitches as he resists the urge to chuck a scone at his head. 

Estella sighs and serves herself a slice of the sponge cake. “I suppose I should re-welcome you into homosexual society, considering you haven’t even tried to have a relationship in, oh, how long has it been? Not since your stinky rodent disappeared in the first place, would you look at that, what a coincidence.” Estella is next on the list for a scone drubbing. “If you do manage to pull this off, which I doubt, have fun with your revolting cock-pustule while I bask in the glory of the fairer sex.”

“Oh good for you Estella! I didn’t realize you were getting much basking time in what with Rebecca living back in America.”

“ _ Shut your filthy tainted mouth Phillip.”  _

“Alright then,” Gregory announces, seeking revenge. “Next on the agenda: Estella’s love life, or lack thereof.”

“Fuck you! At least I’m not a walking cliché. And you—” She rounds on Pip with a glare so venomous, he freezes mid-spoonful of pomegranate. “Who are you to talk, hmm? What exactly do you have going on?” Pip looks around like she must be talking to someone else. Perhaps Amelia-Alexandra III, who stretches and yawns before settling back into sleep.

“Me?”

“Yes you, you randy little twink tell us what sickening amorous escapades you’ve been up to before you go interrogating me.” Pip shrugs and eats his pomegranate. 

“Oh. Nothing much. All’s well in Singleville.” The nonchalance is painfully dense. It makes Gregory and Estella look at each other with disbelief. 

“…Is he lying to us?” 

“He most certainly is lying. I can smell the lies of men and you reek of deceit Phillip.” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s on that chain you keep hidden under the collar of your shirt?” Pip’s hand jumps like it’s tempted to tuck said chain away. “A gift from your beau perhaps?” 

“I bet they’re dog tags. Property of So and So, if found return to the following address. Disgusting mutt.” Gregory raises his eyebrows. 

“Pip is kinky?” Estella glowers. 

“I’ve never gotten a concrete answer out of the infuriating little gremlin but I’m sure of it.” Pip fails to react except to sip his tea serenely. He sets his cup in the saucer with a clink and says, 

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” 

“Oh bullshit,” Estella says. 

“What’s going on?” Gregory asks. 

“What makes you think anything’s going on?!” 

“The way you’re grinning like you know something the rest of us don’t and the way you’re glowing like you’ve been getting good sex for at least a month.” 

“Hmm… A month going on five years, but I see your point.” 

“FIVE YEARS!?!” the politician shouts. 

“FIVE YEARS WHAT THE FUCK PHILLIP!?” the wedding planner shrieks and stands up in a dramatic fashion. Gregory momentarily concedes his title of The Most Dramatic Bitch in The Room. The MP staffer blinks in mock innocence. 

“What?” 

“You mean to tell me you’ve been seeing someone for five years and I didn’t know about it!?” Pip stares at her like she’s just started speaking in gibberish.

“…Why on earth would  _ you  _ give a fuck who I’m seeing?” 

“I do not  _ give a fuck  _ but I still demand to know! It’s—it’s the principle of the matter!” 

“The principal of what matter Estella?” The blonde woman stammers and chokes and turns an interesting shade of red, almost purple. Perhaps it’s because she likes to remain on top of all the gossip within her social circle, for the sake of avoiding surprises, Gregory muses. Or perhaps…

“I think what our darling Estella is trying to say is, the matter of being your friend.” Pip grins and nods in agreement.

“Ah, of course. But she could never admit this, what with me being her ex from when we were seven years old before either of us realized we were spectacularly queer. Thank you for stepping in to save her pride Gregory.” 

“I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND YOU OFFENSIVE GASTRIC LEAVINGS OF A SEAGULL WHICH A DOG THEN LICKS OFF THE SIDEWALK WITH A CHASER OF RANCID HOT DOG!!!” What follows are a solid five minutes of Estella denying ever being enough of a sentimental fool to consider Phillip Pirrup her friend while Pip counters her by listing every single incident that would indicate otherwise from the past twenty years. Gregory listens to them bicker with amusement for a time and picks at the sandwich platter until he decides to try and get back on the topic at hand. 

“Is it a sugar daddy?” he asks. “Because if it’s a sugar daddy I promise I won’t judge.” 

“I will,” Estella says. “I’ll judge you incredibly harshly. I’ll call you a two-bit gold-digging cock whore, just to start with.” Pip begins to giggle. He snorts. He giggles again. He doubles over the table and his mirth only grows until he’s full-blown cackling. Estella and Gregory look at each other with concern. 

“…Pip? Pip? Phillip? Pip are you alright? Pip the way you’re laughing is actually becoming quite worrisome… Pip?” The blond in the red blazer attempts to regain his composure. When he’s just about got it, he says, 

“If I show you what’s on this chain, will you stop prying?” 

“Sure,” Gregory agrees—too quickly. 

“For now,” Estella says—at least she’s honest. Pip brings the chain out from under his shirt. Dangling at the end of it is an iron-wrought upside-down pentagram. Which… was not exactly what the others were expecting. 

The politician and the wedding planner look at each other. Gregory eventually says, “…So you’re not kinky, you’re just a Satanist.” 

_ “Satan has absolutely nothing to do with this! _ ” Pip says scandalized. 

“Wait, is Satan worship also a kink?” 

“Possibly, I don’t know.” 

“Have I mentioned how good these scones are?! Because these scones are delightful, what’s your recipe Estella?” And no matter how much they pester him Gregory and Estella get no more details out of Pip for the rest of the afternoon. 

*******

One week later the sad little Charlie-Brown tree is decorated, complete with tinsel and half-eaten popcorn strands. The fireplace is warm. There are mugs of hot cocoa stirred with a candy cane on the coffee table. The stockings are up and the tinsel is shining and now that the fiasco of present wrapping is finally done Gregory, for once, doesn’t have a single thing to do. 

He huddles on the sofa and looks over Christophe’s shoulder as he scrolls through online job listings and bitches about how while making a Linked-in may be “helpful” it’s utter bullshit. 

“Not one of these jobs involve digging,” he complains. 

“It’s winter in London,” Gregory says. 

“But it’s the one thing I’m good at!” 

“There might still be a few seasonal openings.” Christophe’s lip curls with disdain. 

“No retail. I’d bitch right back at the bitchy customers.” 

“Hmm, you’re right.” It’s strange. Ever since they graduated Christophe has, for the most part, gotten income from his and Gregory’s meddlesome escapades. Now they’re nearly thirty and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with their lives all over again. What does one do when the only job experience they have is mercenary work? 

Gregory has tried not to pressure him into choosing a career one way or another, but he hasn’t been subtle about letting Christophe know he doesn’t want him going far away ever again. So, no more mercenary work. Or joining the military, the next closest thing. Or becoming a spy, as epic as that would be.

Gregory rests his chin on Christophe’s shoulder and says, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Maybe you could be a bodyguard for real this time, instead of using it as cover.” Christophe grumbles something about making a piss poor bodyguard if he doesn’t give a shit about who he’s guarding and keeps scrolling.

The politician stares at Christophe’s scowl and starts getting that stupid sappy melting feeling again. He recalls Pip and Estella’s advice. The mere thought of simply… going for it, right now, is terrifying. But there’s no such thing as an opportune moment, is there? 

So out of all the thoughts deafening him with why this is a terrible idea, he listens to the softest one that insists  _ now, now, now. _

“Christophe. Can I ask you an important question?”

“Hmm?”

“…I want to apologize because I’ve gone about this in all the wrong order. I was so eager to be near you when you got back that I asked you to move in before I asked you an even more important question.”

“What the hell are you prattling on about Gregory?” Deep breath. Just get it over with.

“Will you go out with me?” Christophe’s whole body stills right down to his fingers, which hover over the keyboard. He shifts a few inches away on the couch. After a few seconds of resolutely looking at the screen in front of him, he says,

“…Was that you practicing your spur-of-the-moment-speech abilities?” Gregory, already strung high on anxiety without this reaction, doesn’t exactly respond in a calm and reasonable manner.

“No Christophe, it took me a whole afternoon tea and an evening to come up with that!!!” 

“Oh.” The Mole puts the computer on the coffee table, hesitates, and downs the rest of his hot cocoa.  _ Then _ he finally turns to look at Gregory. “…Is this a prank?”

“No! Why would you think that!?”

“What about a dream?”

“I could slap you, you stupid man, then you’d see if this is a dream!”

“I see, so the afternoon tea was at Estella’s.”

“Christophe! Will you please go out with me!? Because I’ve been trying to flirt with you since you got back and you’ve been completely oblivious!” The Mole scoffs, stands and moves to the other side of the room with a deep glower, saying,

“Oh, I’M oblivious? That is hilarious.”

“But you WERE!” Gregory insists as he follows.

“That’s not obliviousness Gregory, that’s called utter disbelief that this thing I see happening is actually happening.”

“…Why?”

“Why?” Christophe’s glower turns into a funny kind of expression Gregory’s caught on a few rare occasions, when Christophe thought he wasn’t looking. Soft and mournful. His voice is exactly that when he says, “Because I never thought you would like me back, bête. I’ve only been in love with you since forever.”

“… _ What _ ?” Gregory asks, dumbfounded.

“You heard me. I have literally gone to the ends of the earth for you Gregory, going to dinner doesn’t scare me.” The blond stands before his life-long best friend utterly shell-shocked. Christophe gives him plenty of time to think, all while wearing this infuriating little smirk. Eventually, Gregory stammers out,

“…You’re not allowed to one-up me like that!” 

“Hah! Bitch, I just did.” 

“How dare you hijack my heartfelt confession!” The Mole leans over, smooches his cheek and says,

“Get over it.” Gregory stutters out something completely incomprehensible as Christophe reclaims the couch. He stands there fuming and silently swears that he’ll plan the best date ever as revenge. It will be super romantic. But for now, the best form of retaliation is to march over to that couch and aggressively cuddle the smart-ass out of his best friend. Christophe puts an arm around his shoulder and rests his head against Gregory’s. After some time, Gregory looks up to see him smiling. 

“You look unreasonably happy,” he observes. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Gregory shakes his head and calls him impossible. Christophe doesn’t move an inch and calls him a bitch. Gregory checks his phone and realizes the time, 12:02. 

“It’s midnight.” Christophe leans down to kiss him on the lips.

“Merry Christmas,” he says. Gregory hums.

“Best present I’ve gotten in a while.” Christophe picks up his laptop because he’s a god damn insomniac. Gregory picks up his book because he doesn’t want to move so he might as well occupy himself. Half an hour later Christophe looks over to find Gregory asleep, book in his lap, head on Christophe’s shoulder. He’s snoring a little. Christophe snickers. He puts the laptop away and drapes the throw blanket over their laps. He looks back at Gregory, fully intending to fall asleep still looking and still smiling, more content than he’s been in a very long time.

The Mole doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow. But he does know that tonight, forty-three minutes after midnight, his wait is finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck off, I’m simply pragmatic.” –Estella 2k19
> 
> Look. I'm just an English-American (mostly American, regrettably) dumbass who took three years of French in high school. And I decided to write a story that took place in London, in 2019, which includes a character who occasionally speaks French. Also, I am very obviously projecting my American-centric political biases onto these characters. 
> 
> All that is to say, there's probably plenty of shit I got wrong here, so uh, let me know. And also let me know if you liked it. Merry Christmas. ❤️💚❤️

**Author's Note:**

> One should note that inciting a violent crisis that may kill untold numbers of people for the sake of "revolution," is larpy and Not Advisable. Will Gregory listen if you tell him that? No. Will he learn this later on? Maybe. 
> 
> Next chapter will come sometime between now and Christmas.


End file.
